The novels of Thomas Pynchon seem to take place in a vast, unfathomable
cyclotron. Characters, ideas, metaphors, styles, pains, ecstasies,
assorted objects from the Pyramids to paper clips all whirl about at
enormous velocity. They collide, split into new forms, or suddenly
decay, leaving behind only enigmatic smiles.

This is not a surprise to anyone who read Pynchon's celebrated 1963
novel V. That book presented Herbert Stencil, Benny Profane and the
Whole Sick Crew. It encompassed alligator hunts in the sewers of New...